


Watsons' Books and Holmes' Heart

by jamlockk



Series: Watson's Books [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bookstore AU, First Kiss, First Time, John owns a bookshop, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smutty fluff basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3963763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John owns a small bookstore in central London. He's managing, getting by after his discharge from the Army, but if he's honest, he's a little bit bored. Perhaps a strange last-minute customer can help him find the excitement he's missing in his life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watsons' Books and Holmes' Heart

**Author's Note:**

> [ Inspired by this post. ](http://frustratedoctor.tumblr.com/post/116988610316/jamlockk-frustratedoctor-savedbyholmes)
> 
>  
> 
> This is just fluffly smut about love (or at least, intense sexual tension) at first sight. Dedicated to all the fabby AU-inventors in this wonderful fandom. I get no money for mucking about with these two idiots, just the pleasure of mucking about with these two idiots.

**Watson’s Books and Holmes’ Heart**  


“Thanks Molly, see you again soon?”

John smiled as he handed over Molly’s change and receipt, watching as she bundled the anatomy books into her bulging shoulder bag. She caught his eye, smiled shyly and gave a little wave as she left the shop, the bell above the heavy door jingling softly in her wake. 

John sighed to himself; sweet girl, studying to be a pathologist of all things. Her slightly nervous email of a few weeks ago asked about medical texts that weren’t available in her university library, and cost a small fortune in the chain shops. Fortunately John had been able to track down second-hand copies through an old friend at St Bart’s. Molly had thanked him profusely and hurried to collect the precious texts that afternoon, just before closing. 

Carefully stepping around the stacks of books, journals and papers piled on the floor beside the shelves, John walked to the door to flip the sign from “Open to “Closed”. He settled his hands on his hips and looked through the dim light at his little emporium.

Watson’s Books was off the beaten track, easy enough to find in central London if you knew what you were looking for. The shop filled a small space in the basement of an old tenement building. The floors above housed John’s homely, comfortable flat, a large and fancy studio owned by a frivolous artist called Victor, a handsome man whom John had only met briefly, and his elderly landlady Mrs Hudson’s spacious apartment. 

Inside, the shop was cramped and somewhat dark with only a little natural light creeping in through the undersized windows. The bookshelves reached from floor to ceiling and although there were books, journals, papers, maps and various other items filling every space, amongst the apparent chaos was a very neat, well-organised system. Customers could easily find the fiction, travel or history section for instance, and often commented that in searching for a specific book they had come across another gem they just had to buy too. John kept the antique and rare volumes wrapped in their protective jackets behind his desk to the rear of the shop. The smooth, polished wood of the old desk glowed in the gentle light from the lamps John had strategically placed in the various nooks and crannies around the room. Much like his flat above, John’s shop had a warm and welcoming atmosphere and the business, though small, was highly successful. 

Reflecting that it was not quite the life he’d expected for himself when he was medically discharged from the army, John ran a hand along the window sill fondly and looked out to the street outside. The rain that had threatened all day was now coming down steadily and the world outside the window was grey and cold. Compared to the shifting sands and oppressive heat of Afghanistan, John welcomed the dreary London winter.

Things had turned out alright in the end; he was content enough with his books but he still longed for a little bit of excitement now and again. He’d managed to acquire some interesting scientific texts last month – chemistry mostly, but a turn of the century psychiatry book had also caught his eye. So far no-one had even enquired about them, which was a bit disappointing, but he was hoping the right customer would soon walk through the door. 

Realising he’d left his keys on the desk, John huffed to himself and went to retrieve them. His back was still turned when he heard the light jingle of the old bell above the front door, and he opened his mouth to let the latecomer know he was just closing up, could they come back another….. 

John stopped in his tracks, eyes wide and heart suddenly pounding as he looked at the man standing in the doorway. The man’s eyes swept over him for a few seconds, then he nodded in greeting and moved towards the shelves labelled “Biology/Chemistry/Psychology/General Science” to his left. 

John shook his head to pull himself together and glowered down at the surface of his desk for a moment. His heart was still thudding in his chest and it had been a long time since he had crossed paths with anyone who could startle him like that. He shuffled some papers around, glancing up to see if his visitor was looking, licking his lips unconsciously. The customer was scrutinising the shelves intently, his elegant fingers playing about his soft mouth as he flicked his gaze across the titles. 

He was breathtakingly beautiful. There was no other word to describe him, John thought. 

The rain clung to the heavy coat he wore and made his sable curls glisten in the low light of the shop. His pale skin provided a striking contrast against the dark wool coat and the black suit underneath. His tall, lean frame seemed to lengthen impossibly further as he bent to pick up and examine a hefty leather-bound book from one of the bottom shelves.  
John knew he was staring and was sure he would be caught any moment, mouth open, eyes fixed on the exquisite man in front of him. He cleared his throat and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, then spoke.

“Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”

The customer stood, leather-bound book in hand, and strode towards the desk. He gently placed the book down and drew himself up to his full height, looming over John and brushing the very tips of his curls against the low wooden beams above their heads.

John met his piercing eyes unflinchingly. He shot a glance at the book on the desk and tapped a couple of buttons on his till. 

“See anything else you like?” 

John’s voice came out slightly husky and he watched as the man’s eyes widened a little before the indifferent expression he’d been wearing settled back into place. John winced internally, he hadn’t meant that to sound quite so… inane? Flirty? Stupid? He straightened himself up and pointed at the book.

“£75, that one,” he said, his voice much more confident this time. 

The customer quirked an eyebrow and nodded at the glass case behind John as he pushed his hands deep into his coat pockets. 

“I see you have a few rare texts in that case. Are they available for purchase?”

The man’s voice was rich, deep and mellow in John’s ears. John smiled; it seems his waiting had paid off.

“Yes, I have some interesting things. Would you like to see them?” He opened the glass door and took out a bundle of books swathed in thick protective material. Moving the man’s other purchase to one side, he slowly unwrapped each one, laying them side by side on the counter. 

“All in excellent condition,” the man muttered to himself, stroking his hand delicately over the spine of each book. “Max Muller, 1861, Scientific Dialogues, 1852, and Psychoanalysis from 1913. Very impressive.” He looked up sharply at John.

“I’ll take them all,” he announced, “for £950.” 

He nodded to affirm his price, and John’s agreement to it. John raised an eyebrow, amused; those volumes were worth around £1,200, but obviously this guy thought John had no idea of their worth. He pursed his lips and appeared to think on this offer. 

“Well, that seems a bit on the low side, if you ask me,” John began, “but I would consider, say, £1,300?”

The man’s eyes narrowed and he tilted his head in thought. John folded his arms across his chest and steadfastly returned the gaze. He resisted the urge to lick his lips again, but dammit if being subjected to that level of intense scrutiny wasn’t making him feel a little hot under his plaid shirt and misshapen, woolly cardy. It shouldn’t be sexy to have someone stare at you like that but it was definitely bloody working on John. 

The man smiled, an expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he withdrew his wallet from the cavernous pocket of his coat. 

“£1,000, then,” he declared, setting the wallet on top of the books.

“£1,300,” John repeated, and smiled back. He saw the man’s gaze falter ever so briefly as he noticed the flint in John’s eyes, but neither man seemed willing to budge. The customer glared again and took a deep breath, then launched into a detailed dissection of John, his personal life and his shop.

“You are no expert on rare books but you’ve done some research, willing to invest time in this little shop but it’s not your first choice nor is bookselling your first career. You spent some time living abroad, you’re originally from London but you had no relatives or wife to support you when you returned. Military service, medically discharged, you’re organised but appreciate comfort, hence the apparent disorganisation of your shelves. And as much as you enjoy selling books, you crave a more.. exciting life on occasion, more often than you care to admit. Your shop is moderately successful but no-one is particularly interested in your rarest items. I am, therefore in order to entice me back to spend more you will negotiate down from £1,300 and agree to the reasonable price of £1,100.”

He finished speaking and tipped his chin back imperiously, daring John to disagree. John was entranced, wondering how this weird guy had known so much about him. He stared in open admiration and couldn’t stop his mouth running away with him a little.

“That… was amazing,” he said. “How did you know all that? It’s extraordinary!”

His words were met with a frown and a look of utter confusion passed across his customer’s face for just a moment. 

“That’s not what people normally say,” he mumbled. 

John snorted, “What do they normally say?” he asked, grinning.

“Piss off.” The man’s face broke into a smile, and this one definitely reached those strangely attractive eyes, John noted. “Sherlock Holmes,” the man continued, extending his hand over the desk. John reached out and shook it, feeling the small, healed burns and rough callouses on the tips of the man’s... Sherlock’s elegant fingers. 

“John Watson,” he answered, holding Sherlock’s gaze before realising that he had probably held onto his hand and eyes for a bit too long. He dropped both abruptly, clearing his throat and trying to get his internal balance back again. Sherlock looked down too, and laid his lovely hand on top of the books once more. 

“So..” he started, his voice seeming even lower and making a coil of arousal unfurl in John’s abdomen. “I believe you were saying these cost £1,300? I’d be willing to take them for £1,150?” 

John’s eyes followed Sherlock’s hand onto the books and he almost didn’t catch what he’d said. Get a goddamn grip, Watson, he reprimanded himself. He lifted his eyes back up and caught the hint of amusement in Sherlock’s smile. 

“£1,200 it is then,” he said, crossing his arms but unable to stop an answering grin from spreading across his face. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, reached for his wallet and drew twelve crisp £100 notes from it, laying them theatrically on the desk. John rewrapped the books and gently placed them into a cloth bag, the picked up the money and stashed it in the till under the desk.  
Sherlock was looking down at his purchases in his hands, then finally he turned his focus back to John. John licked his lips again, eyes momentarily flicking down to Sherlock’s luscious mouth.

“Thank you, Mr Watson… John,” Sherlock murmured, then he turned and left the shop. 

John heaved out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. What the hell was that?! He felt like he’d been punched in the gut, the force of his instant attraction to Sherlock making him dizzy. He pulled himself together, grabbed his keys and locked up as he left. 

He climbed straight up to his flat and sat down heavily in his chair beside the fireplace, turning the encounter over in his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about the things Sherlock had known about him, trying to pick apart the tricks and intricacies of the incredible man. 

John sat in his chair for a long time, hoping desperately that he’d see Sherlock Holmes again. 

****** 

In the weeks that followed that few minutes spent in Sherlock’s presence, John caught himself looking up in wild anticipation each time the bell above his shop door jingled. He was disappointed that Sherlock hadn’t come back again and the more time passed, the more pathetic and silly John felt. Of course a man like that couldn’t be interested in a bookstore owner, he was much more likely to date Victor, the gorgeous artist upstairs, than plain old John Watson. Eventually, John pushed his hopes to see Sherlock again to the back of his mind, but the odd feeling that something was missing, something that Sherlock could bring, lingered. 

****** 

Outside it was snowing. John quickly cashed up after bidding his last customer goodbye and hustling them out into the cold. He was locking up and thinking about what might be vaguely edible in his fridge when he noticed a figure standing on the steps up to the door of the flats above his shop. The person was trying to shelter in the large doorway, a long coat pulled tightly around them. 

“Bloody brass monkey weather, isn’t it?” John said as he approached the door.

“Indeed,” a rich voice replied. John froze, his keys in hand as the owner of the voice stepped forward. 

Sherlock looked just as gorgeous in the snow as he had standing in John’s tiny shop. Soft flakes were gathering in his hair, his cheeks were tinged pink with the cold and his eyes glowed hotly as he watched John push the key into the lock and open the door. He followed John inside and they stood there in the hallway, the air between them charged and expecting. 

“So, coffee?” John asked, “I think I’ve got some Earl Grey as well if you prefer tea? I’d like to warm you up a bit.” 

John winced internally at himself, at the obvious flirty tone, but Sherlock just watched him, his eyes wide. He’d seemed so confident and now looked a little unsure, but he nodded and they went upstairs to John’s small flat. 

John gestured to the chairs in front of the fireplace and smiled as he noticed Sherlock taking in everything about the flat. He clattered about in the kitchen, attempting to prepare tea, but he was drawn to the man in the chair opposite his. Kettle on, he walked back through to the sitting room, determined to take advantage of Sherlock’s presence here and find out more about him. Slow and steady wins the race, he reminded himself. 

Sherlock looked up at John as he walked back in slow and steady immediately went out of the window at the desire evident in those eyes. John crossed the room in a blink and sank his hand into Sherlock’s curls, pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s and resting his other hand on Sherlock’s thigh. 

The response was instantaneous, Sherlock moaning lowly into John’s mouth and parting his lips to allow John to explore. He tasted of dark tea and smelled faintly of chemicals and spices, and John thought it the most intoxicating kiss he’d ever experienced. Sherlock’s hands came to rest one on John’s waist, the other gripping his jumper as Sherlock tried to pull his body closer. John deepened the kiss, stroking Sherlock’s tongue and lapping at the corners of his lovely mouth, and when Sherlock whimpered softly John couldn’t stand it any longer. 

“This way,” he grunted, pulling back and yanking on the lapels of Sherlock’s coat. The man rose unsteadily to his feet and John practically dragged him to the bedroom. 

Kicking off his shoes and wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s frame, John managed to gentle his movements as he manoeuvred them onto the bed. He helped Sherlock out of his coat and laid it carefully on the floor, pushing him onto his back and returning to capture his lips again. This time their kisses were unhurried but no less passionate, as John slowly and reverently stripped the gorgeous man he’d managed to get into his bed. 

He took his time unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, kissing and caressing every inch of skin as it was revealed. Sherlock shivered and whimpered under John’s attentions and John thought it wonderful, his cock straining at his jeans and dampening his boxers. John dipped his tongue into Sherlock’s navel, revelling in the sound it produced and slowly pulled down his zip, brushing his hand against the hardness in Sherlock’s trousers. 

“Oh God, yes,” Sherlock said, his fingers fumbling at John’s fly. Chuckling softly, John leaned back out of reach and encouraged Sherlock to lift his hips as he slid the expensive suit trousers and silky boxers down his long legs and off. 

Fully naked in the dim light of the bedroom, Sherlock was exquisite. John drank in the sight of him, his lithe frame and long limbs, smooth skin and the dusting of auburn hair on his chest, his face flushed and eyelids heavy with desire. 

“You’re beautiful,” John breathed, lowering his clothed body over Sherlock and kissing him reverently. “You have too many clothes on, take them all off so I can see you,” Sherlock groused in between kisses, trying to be demanding but just sounding desperate. “Now.”

“Bossy,” John murmured, smiling and sitting back to obey. He felt a bit self-conscious, his scarred and broken body in contrast to Sherlock’s artful beauty, but he refused to let it show. He took off his jumper and shirt over his head, and removed his jeans and boxers in one go, his erection proudly springing free. He stood at the foot of the bed, unwavering under Sherlock’s intense gaze. 

“Oh John,” Sherlock whispered, “You’re exquisite.”

John grinned even more as Sherlock reached out to pull him down, their bodies pressed together hip to chest. They both gasped in pleasure as their cocks brushed, thrilling in the contact. 

“Please, John,” Sherlock whimpered as John began thrusting slowly against him, planting kisses and nipping gently at his collarbone. 

“Oh shit, Sherlock, that feels amazing,” John mumbled, the warm coil of orgasm already unfurling in his groin. He lent up, licked a wet stripe into his palm and reached down between their bodies to take them both in hand. Groaning, they sped up their thrusts against one another until Sherlock began shaking, his hands clawing at John’s back and arse. 

“God yes, that’s it, let go, I want to see you,” John growled, watching Sherlock fall apart under him. Sherlock heaved in a huge breath and came, hot pulses spurting over John’s hand and pushing him over the edge as the pleasure burst through him, sharp and bright. John collapsed on top of Sherlock and they lay there, letting the aftershocks shiver through their bodies, their combined release cooling on their skin. 

Finally John rolled over, feeling blissful and sated. He got up to reach for his shirt and wiped his belly. He turned around to a sleepy Sherlock, cleaning him gently. He dropped the shirt on the floor again and let Sherlock coax him back onto the bed, bringing his arms around Sherlock’s warm body. Sherlock hummed contentedly in the back of his throat, wrapping himself around John and snuggling in. John chuckled, never having realised how much he enjoyed snoozing post-orgasm with his partners. This, here with Sherlock, just felt right. 

“I was wondering if you were ever coming back,” John said quietly into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock huffed, rolling away for a moment to grasp the sheet to cover them both. 

“You, John Watson, are interesting,” he rumbled, “and besides, I was eager to see if I was right about your medical discharge from the military.”

John laughed, “Well, yes, you were.”

“Of course I was. I was also right in thinking you would be delightful in bed, although I managed to keep that deduction to myself.” 

“Oh really, so you deduced that did you? Along with my military service and my inexpert selling of books?” John replied, amused.

“Naturally,” Sherlock yawned. He sat up, looking thoughtfully at John. He was silent for a long moment, before seeming to come to a decision and nodding briskly. 

“John, I am a consulting detective, the only one in the world. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me for help. I have never required assistance in my work but I find you fascinating and I find myself wanting to share more with you. I can provide you with the excitement you seek, so you will join me in identifying and chasing down London’s idiotic criminals.”

John was taken aback, exclaiming: “But we hardly know each other!”

“Hmm, true I suppose, but clearly there is more here worth exploring,” Sherlock countered. “I… I think about you constantly. It’s most distracting. I fear it will only be worse now, so I propose we spend as much time together as possible.” Sherlock cleared his throat, nervous again. “I… I want more of you, John. And I can tell from your breathing and your pupils that you want more of me. So, let’s explore.”

John opened his mouth to respond, but saw the mischievous but hesitant look in Sherlock’s eye. He already knew Sherlock was right, and that he was lost. Oh, what the hell. He craved the excitement and he craved the man in his arms. 

Grinning and lying back to pull Sherlock close again, he sighed happily. 

“When do we start?”


End file.
